To Keep
by girlinshipwreck
Summary: The Eleventh Doctor has a promise to keep to a girl who doesn't quite know him yet, marking the beginning of an unseen chapter of his story. {AU}.


******Author's Note: **_Videos for this story, including characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel under **girlinashipwreck**_

* * *

**To Fall**

_I have promises to keep / And miles to go before I sleep... _

_She was like the moon; part of her was always hidden away._

I stare up into the endless depths of the night sky and wonder what it would be like to be up there. High up above the world, suspended in the midst of all that midnight, surrounded by the ghosts of the universe, all those lost stars still burning on. Then I sigh. No wonder Jamie says I'm always in a world of my own; I spend way too much time thinking.

I should be concentrating on the problem at hand, the fact it's a Saturday night and I'm grounded. There's an under-eighteens' night down at the village hall and I'm _grounded. _All because I got busted skipping school. I dogged it all last week. Nothing was said. I dog it again this week, but only one day out of the whole five I'm forced to go to that dump for and I'm caught. Spotted by one of the janitors. I knew legging it over that wall was a mistake. Should have just taken my chances in the car park.

I'm a bit of a legend with the janitors. They're always keeping an eye on the windows, fences, walls and gates just in case I break out again.

Which usually happens.

_Always _happens.

Last summer, the substitute teacher for English made the mistake of leaving the window open - _wiiide_ open - because it was so warm, and as if that wasn't enough, he made the second mistake of sending Taj out of the room for being lippy, with Taj doing the obvious and making a run for it, the stupid sub taking off after him, shouting at us to get on with our work. I'm sitting at the front. It's a beautiful afternoon. Shakespeare bores the pants off me. The teacher's pissed off to God knows where. The classroom is on the ground floor. The window's wide open. What is a girl to do? Her work? Yeah right.

It only took two seconds. I chucked my satchel out of the window before following it into freedom. Some of the wilder boys followed my example, everyone else either shocked into silence or cheering us on. We all went down to the park where spotty Len got a bit frisky and I bashed him one. I'm Jamie's - or I would be if he actually did something. He just moons about after me, much to Lena's annoyance.

Lena doesn't like Jamie. Jamie doesn't like Lena. I think it's because he thinks she's a bad influence on me or something. He's always nagging me to stop copying her as though I don't have a mind of my own. It's not fair. _I_ was the one who started smoking and drinking. _She _copied me. But now all because he's quitting the booze and trying to ditch the fags, he's moaning at me to do the same. Says I should grow up and stop being a little idiot, like he's suddenly Mr. Mature and I'm just a toddler next to his wealth of worldly wisdom.

Jamie was never a bad-ass but he had his little vices like the rest of us. Now he's acting like a saint and trying to get me to act like one too. I know I shouldn't be doing what I'm doing, but at least I know my limits.

Unlike Lena.

But it's my fault she's like this. It's my fault I've lost Lena; that she's lost herself. She was good, really good. I couldn't understand why she wanted to be my friend. Then I slipped up and took her with me. To keep up and in with me, she started doing what I was doing. But she was never into the heavy stuff. A can of lager here, a secret ciggie there, but now she's into the hard stuff, the stuff that scares me stiff, and it's all my fault -

I start as an owl swoops past the window, hooting loudly. Then I hastily gather my wits together. If I keep moping about, brooding on the sky and Jamie and Lena and everything else, I'm going to miss the action.

Racing over to the mirror, I check my reflection one last time.

To my relief, my hair is looking... normal. It falls past my shoulders, its shade as dark as the night sky beyond my window. I went through a period of having a bob around about the time I was being fostered by somebody in Chiswick. That went kind of wrong. Actually, it had been going wrong for a while. Then I sort of burned their shed down. And that was the straw that broke the camel's back. So I was dumped back on the Social's doorstep. Quelle surprise surprise.

There was a ginger woman down at the Social. Worked as a temp in the office, dealing with all the paper drama and stuff. She took one look at me and pointed out I was a long streak of nothing. But she was nice, kind underneath all the attitude. When I was waiting for my social worker to show up, she got me a Diet Coke and some Hula-Hoops from the vendie.

She was right though, about the long streak of nothing part. The bob just emphasized it even more, exposing and stretching my neck to inhuman proportions. So I decided to grow it out. I'm glad I did. But Lena is on a downer about my do and the rest of my appearance. She says I'm plain; that it's only my colouring that makes me stand out. Well, we can't be all raving, tearing beauties like Lena I suppose. But who cares what she thinks? The kohl smudged around my eyes makes them look really, really blue and the red mini-skirt shows off my legs. Being tall is good in the leg department. I look older, mature, more like twenty-six than sixteen.

Then I frown at my reflection. The longer I look at it, the more it seems wrong. It's - it's like I'm looking at the future, but too soon. Like I'm too close to the past still. Something's tugging at the back of my mind, a memory...

Then it's gone.

Shrugging my shoulders, I turn away from the mirror. As I do, there's a small _thud. _I whip around, alarmed. There's another _thud. _I whip around the other way, swearing softly under my breath. Maybe it's that owl again. I hope it's not in my room somewhere. I'm not mad keen on things with wings. _Thud._ My eyebrows start climbing up my forehead. Alright, this is starting to freak me out a bit. I'd heard this dump was haunted but I thought it was all just a load of old guff. But then there's a fourth _thud _and I make for the window, nerve going. I'm not staying in here a second longer - no chance. Not with birds or ghosts on the loose, thudding all over the place.

There's another _thud_, right _at_ the window - _on_ the glass - and I falter mid-run. _Alright..._ Holding my breath, I creep over to the window, trying hard not to think about spirits and owls and monsters coming out from under the bed. As I draw closer to the glass, something hits the window again_. _

_Thud!_

I quickly duck down under the sill, hands clamped over my mouth. It's not an owl or a ghost. It's pebbles. I think of the sweeping driveway that leads up to the Home. It's riddled with pebbles and gravel, a stinking dirt road that always makes the mini-bus jolt during its journey to the main road. But my room's round the back, looking out over the grounds. Who the hell would be throwing pebbles at _my _window? I'm not exactly Juliet material.

The Home is in the middle of nowhere. There's nothing but fields and woods surrounding the place, the stench of manure constantly filling the nostrils. The village is about two miles, maybe a bit more, down the main road, and Lena and Jamie are supposed to be meeting me in the village hall itself, so it can't be them. There's another _thud_. Much to my disgust, I can't help but whimper like a little dog. Then my ears prick up. I stop whimpering. I can hear a man's voice. He's cursing in some funny sounding language. There's a smattering of _thuds, _another shower of pebbles bouncing off the glass like rain.

A voice in my head is screaming at me to go and get one of the care staff. But all I can think about is the party happening in my absence, the stuff I'm missing out on. I'm torn between fear and fun like a fool. My gaze falls on the shoes lying on the floor. They're high-heels, clumpy and big. Then I look at the trainers on my feet. I was going to chuck my high-heels out of the window, then climb down the drain-pipe in my trainers before walking to the village hall and changing into my high-heels when I got there, hiding my trainers somewhere nearby for the walk and climb home.

I look at my high-heels again, assessing them. If they hit someone on the head, they'd _really_ hurt. Without further thought, I snatch one up. I really don't like people lurking about like acne. Throwing the window open, I lob my shoe like a grenade, hoping it will hit whoever it is down below. My plan works like a dream. There's a loud thump and a muffled yelp, much to my satisfaction.

Fear and curiosity fight each other about what I should do next. Run screaming from the room or stay here and find out what's happening? Curiosity conquers all, leading me to stick my head out. Down below is a man; tall and ungainly, with floppy dark hair. He's massaging his head and holding my shoe out before him, a bit like Hamlet and his skull. He looks at it in disbelief, as though he's never seen a shoe before. My heart thuds strangely as I stare at him.

It can't be _him_, can it?

Leaning out a little further, I try to see his face. The movement unfortunately catches his attention. He looks up. It is _him_. I dive out of sight, ducking under the sill again. Oh my God, it's _him_. The stranger. Oh my God. Oh my God. _Oh my God. _I bury my face in my hands, trying to wrap my head around the fact that he's here. Why is he here? It can't be because of me.

Can it?

* * *

"Hello!"

I leap upwards like a salmon, nearly knocking myself out on the sticking out sill. Only to see a disembodied head floating outside my window, cheerily smiling in my direction. I lose my own and scream like a banshee. The head screams as well before disappearing from sight. Something bangs on my door, rattling the door knob.

I scream.

Again.

"W-W-What the hell's going on in there!?" a voice demands. I stare at the door. It's Gavin or Fatso as I call him. One of the care staff - or jailers, as I also like to refer to them as. "Open up or I'll break the b-b-bloody door down!" he shouts, trying to sound authoritative and failing miserably.

I look down at the clothes I've got on. Party clothes, not pyjamas. Then I see my dressing gown hanging over the back of my desk chair. Hastily pulling it on, I call out, "Gonna wait Gav, I'm just out of my bed!" But as I race to the door, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, all red lips and kohl. I whimper as I smear it all over my face with the palms of my hands. It took me _ages_ to get my make-up right.

"I've giving you to the count of three! One -"

"Alright! Alright!" I shout, dashing to the door.

But then I see the window's still open. I can't leave it open. The stranger. The head! Gavin can't see it's open. It's not supposed to be open! I race over to the window, panting heavily. All the bedroom windows at the Home have child-locks on them, but I broke mine on purpose. Every time they do safety inspections, they fix it and then I break it. Nothing's ever said but they don't know that it's broken again. It's my secret weapon. But I don't know how much longer I can push playing on their ignorance though.

Escaping from windows at school has been strictly limited to ground-floor level. Maybe the other care staff think that's what stops me from doing the same here since my room is so high up. But Gavin might guess. He's a bit laughable but he's not completely brain-dead. He has a knack of seeing through my dissembling. If he sees the window wide open when it shouldn't be and the make-up smeared over my face, he's going to put two and two together and get four.

As quietly as possible, I shut the window. Gavin starts pounding on the door again, shouting at me to hurry up. I run over to it for the umpteenth time but just as I'm about to pull the bolt back, I look down at the ground and see I'm still rocking my trainers. Sweating, I drop to the floor and tear them off, flinging them into the far corner of my room. They land with two dull thumps. I stagger to my feet, feeling like I've just run a marathon and finally pull the bolt back. I open the door a fraction. The less Gavin sees, the better. He squints at me through the gap between door and door-frame, doing a double-take at my freakish face. Then he rolls his eyes.

"It just had to be you, didn't it?" he says sarcastically, crossing his arms over his wide chest.

"Who else could carry it off?" I retort.

"What's with the screaming?" he asks. "And the face? Halloween was two months ago, honey."

"What's with the prowling about outside young girls' doors?"

"I'm doing my patrol," he snaps, looking upset.

I goggle at him, suddenly feeling guilty. Gavin's a lot of things but he's not like that.

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I didn't mean it."

He narrows his eyes at me, analyzing my apology for how real it is.

"It's a solid gold carat genuine sorry, man," I say. Why can't he just give me a break?

"What's the deal?" he bellows, bypassing my words.

"I had a nightmare," I lie, the memory of the floating head lending conviction to my words.

"And the monster make-over?"

"I couldn't be bothered taking it off," I shrug.

"You didn't come home from school like that," he points out. Like I said, he's not exactly brain-dead. You might be able to get one thing past him but he'll cotton onto the rest.

"I was trying on some make-up. Experimenting with a new look and all that jazz," I explain, trying to look innocent.

"What? The undead look?"

"I dunno. It looked nice in the mirror."

"Was it new make-up?"

"Yeah, that's why I was trying it on," I say eagerly, seeing an escape route. "I wanted to see how it looked."

Gavin's face turns beetroot, eyes bulging with fury.

"How can you afford new make-up!? H-H-How can you afford new anything!?" he explodes. "You're sanctioned up to your eyeballs! The next time you get pocket money, you'll be e-e-eighty!"

My own face goes bright red. _Fuck. _He's got me. Fatso's actually got me. Again.

"You've b-b-been shoplifting again, haven't you!?" Gavin shouts, waving his arms about like a conductor.

"_Nooo!_ Lena gave it to me. As a present!" I protest, sort of lying and telling the truth at the same time. The make-up was shoplifted from Boots by Jessie who gave it to Lena who gave it to me. I don't know why. We're not exactly Ant and Dec anymore, more Tom and Jerry. Gavin just looks at me, disappointed, angry and sad all at once. _Now_ I know why she gave it to me. It was to spectacularly land me in the shit.

"Can I go down to the kitchen?" I ask quickly, shifting from one foot to the next. Maybe if I can distract him...

"Why!?" he splutters, looking at me like I'm insane. I probably do look insane actually.

"I'm hungry. I want to make a cheese toastie."

"What, so you can go and burn the place down? I don't think so."

"I. Am. Hungry," I say slowly.

"It. Is. Late. At. Night."

We both narrow our eyes at each other. God, you'd think he was sixteen as well, instead of being forty-two.

"The others are still up," I argue, trying a different tack. "They're keeping the rest of us awake with their racket."

"They're older than you. They get more privileges," he says, shrugging his shoulders.

"_Nooo! _They're tougher than you and all the other care staff put together; _that's_ why they get to stay up. You're all shit scared of them."

There's a horrible silence. I lick my lips nervously and instantly regret it. The taste of lipstick on my tongue makes me want to retch. I think I went a bit overboard with it. I look down at my dirty hands, the sight of them reminding me all over again of the mess that's my face and the mess I'm in right now. I'm grounded. I look like I've been dive-bombed by a make-up counter. There's a weirdo outside my window. Jamie will probably get off with Lena in my absence. And to top it all, Gavin finally cracks.

"That's it! You're getting another sanction. T-T-Tomorrow!"

"Well, I'm not going to get one yesterday, am I? Not unless you've got a time machine," I retort. From somewhere behind me, I swear I hear a faint chuckle.

"G-G-Go to your room!" he orders, flapping his hands.

"I. Am. In. My. Room!"

Gavin just points a piggy finger at me before spinning on his heel and stalking off. I slam the door shut, shoving the bolt into place. Need it in a place like this. Then I sigh. Another sanction. I don't know what they can throw at me next. I've exhausted all their punishments. I hope it's Gavin who sanctions me though. He's a soft touch. It'll be something that will never happen, like I'm not allowed a rabbit or banned from playing table tennis for a month. We're not allowed pets, although some of the younger kids have a fish each. Plus I never play table tennis anyways. It's naff.

But Gavin's an angel compared to the other care staff. Apart from him, Monica and Dave, there's new staff coming and going all the time. There's a quick turnover because they can't handle the kids. Some of them take their own shit out on us. Others take favourites and are down on the rest. And then there are the ones that overstep the boundaries of restraint, or turn a blind eye when a situation needs someone to see.

Yet this place is a dream compared to some of the other places I've been in. Alright, there are a lot of fights and bullying, with somebody always trying to nick your stuff, but compared to what I've seen in the past, it's a cakewalk. But we all agree on the same thing at old Wellie. None of us like agency. I turn around, feeling depressed. My night out seems to be in the dust now...

My mouth sort of goes slack, jaw dropping spectacularly. I can't think or speak. All I can do is gape like a gormless idiot. The stranger is sitting on my window-sill, leaning against the frame with an awkward grace. The window behind him is open, the curtains billowing in the faint winter wind.

"Time machines, eh?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

* * *

I remember the faint chuckle I heard. It was _him_. I stare at him. He stares back at me, eyes searching my face. His stare is like a spot-light. It seems to slice through the outward shell of my soul and strike into its very heart. I take a step back, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the weight of his scrutiny.

Something's bothering him, something terrible. I can read it in his body language, the forced casualness of his stance and the tense cast of his shoulders. I take another step back. In fact, this whole fandango should be making me take a hundred steps back, out of the door and out of the building. But his gaze holds me, like a butterfly on a pin.

Then, with a great effort, the stranger tries to smile, a lop-sided half smile that makes me sad to see, like I've been cheated out of something real and foisted off with a fake instead. "How do you like it then?" he asks, smile disappearing as he speaks. "You never really told me about it."

I force myself to come back to life.

"Never told you about what? Time machines?" I snap.

"Here," he says, gesturing with his hand around my room. "Wellington Children's Home. _Old Wellie_."

I stare at him again. "What's there to say? I haven't exactly told you my life story," I snap. The stranger flinches, like I've just clobbered him one. "I'm sorry," I find myself saying to my surprise. "The place has its good and bad points. But it's... hard. Have to watch my back."

"I find myself having to watch mine on occasion," he says suddenly and loudly, too loudly. "But I thought there were foster homes and such, things that'd get you out of here, away from it all. The prospect of a home, a family."

I lift my gaze to his face. He looks kind of desperate, like he's clutching at straws. "I did get fostered. A lot. But I always got into trouble. They couldn't cope. I got moved on. All over Kent, Gloucester. Everywhere really. Ended up here," I shrug.

"And now?"

"There's Mrs. Wilcox. But it's not going... well," I say evasively.

"More trouble?"

I nod.

"Hmm," he says, looking troubled himself.

"She's a bit... stuffy. Obsessed with fire alarms," I explain. "And she's posh. It's all a bit... suffocating. Here, I can get space to breathe sometimes. Out in the grounds or in my room. I might have to help with the washing up and stuff, but that's better than Wilcox. Heck, Ofsted is better than Wilcox."

"Oh. Ofsted... Old chums of mine. Impersonate them often," the stranger says flippantly, making me gape anew at him.

"Um... okay. Ofsted. You pretend to be Ofsted."

"Yes!"

I contemplate him for a second.

"Why?"

"It's just when the need arises, that's all," he explains, looking dodgy.

"You're not really Ofsted pretending _not_ to be Ofsted are you?" I ask a bit nervously. God knows what Ofsted will do to expose failing standards. Maybe I'm some guinea pig in a mad Ofsted scheme and they've got one of their lackeys stalking me so in a court of law they can drag Gavin and Co through the mud.

"Er, no. I'm just me pretending not to be me."

I gape at him a little bit more.

"So, what do you get up to here?" the stranger asks, looking round with an air of forced interest. "Do you have a pen-pal? Or do you just indulge in a spot of Scrabble from time to time?"

"Umm, I do my own laundry. We have a chore chart," I explain at the sight of his puzzled face. "I cook my own meals, nothing fancy. I chill out in my room. It's... okay. I only have myself to worry about. Nobody to miss and nobody to miss me. Some of the other kids have families and pets and they're hurting because they're here, away from them."

He looks at me funny, like he's upset but trying to hide it. "There might be somebody out there who misses you," he says gently, strange emotion in his voice.

"Who? Father Christmas?" I snort. "Why do you care? In fact why are you here and why am I telling you all this?" I demand, starting to freak out. "There's a strange man in my bedroom -"

"Where!?" he demands, becoming alarmed. His head whips from side to side like he's watching a tennis match. "I don't see anyone!"

"_I _see _you!_"

There's a silence as it dawns on him that he's the strange man.

"Oh," he ohs thoughtfully. "You mean me."

I begin again.

"As I was saying, there's a strange man in my bedroom -"

"You're starting sound like Jackie, actually," the stranger muses, tilting his head to one side as he studies me. "But in a different way!" he amends hastily. "With a different meaning to your words and" -

-"Would you shut up and let me speak?"

"No! _I'm_ going to speak. Not you. _Me_," he says firmly, readjusting his bow-tie. "I'm here because I care you're in care, and you're telling me all this because you subconsciously recognize the fact that I care, and not just because you're in care, but because you're _you_. I care because of you and that's why you're not running screaming to that portly chap that's supposed to be responsible for your welfare, because _you know I care_."

My mouth hangs open in shock. It seems to be doing that a lot tonight, actually.

"And close your mouth please. There's a large bluebottle in here somewhere, and I don't think you'd like to catch it. Don't know why it's here in the first place, should be dead. Maybe it's the warmth that's attracted it, although I wouldn't say it was particularly warm in here. But it's the middle of winter, nearly Christmas, yet it's here. Like us. Survivors," he says, his eyes meeting mine on the last word.

* * *

The stranger leaps to his feet, rubbing his hands together. "Ready to go then?" he asks, nodding at the open window. There's a feeling of frenzy radiating off him, like he wants to get something over and done with. As though he needs to know something and he needs to know it now because the waiting is killing him. I take a third step back.

"Where?" I ask.

"Into all of time and space!" he beams manically. "But not yet. The village hall will do nicely for now. I'm DJing there later. Spinning some golden oldies. The Birdie Song. Symphony No. 9, _Scherzo,_"he says with desperate glee, rubbing his hands together again. "And many more! Tell me, do you like Buck's Fizz?"

I back further away from him, feeling a bit weird. There's a strange man in my bedroom and somehow it feels... normal. Safe. Like I'm with an old friend. Family even. But there's something more, like he's here for a reason, a reason he won't reveal. Something so terrible, I don't think I want him to tell me.

"I'm hungry," I say stupidly. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles helpfully.

"And you need to clean your face," the stranger points out, pulling out a blue hanky. Except he keeps pulling it and pulling it and pulling it and more and more and more hanky comes out of his pocket, like he's some sort of magician or something. I sit down on the edge of my bed, head spinning.

"This has happened before. There is an end. Somewhere. I just have to find it..." he says vaguely, wrestling with his pocket. But his words make me feel funny, like I'm remembering something from long ago or long before or long after. "I have to find the end. I've done it before. I have to stop the end," he mutters to himself, the hanky now turning red as it gets even longer. I flop back on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. It feels like my world is slowly unravelling, a bit like the stranger himself.

"Oh cheer up!" he tuts. "You usually love this!"

"I'm hungry," I say again, like an automaton.

The stranger tuts again before muttering _it's always the mouths._ There's a rustling noise and then something hot and moist lands on my stomach. The dressing gown protects me from the worst of it, but it's still enough for me to sit up in shock. My fingers tentatively dangle the brown paper bag in the air as I look at it in bewilderment. It smells nice, all cheesy and mouth-watering, but it could be poisoned for all I know.

As though reading my mind, the stranger says pettishly, "It's not poisoned. Honestly! The Veschillian eggs were a mistake, a culinary disaster!"

I stare at him.

"My pocket kept it warm for you," he gabbles on. "The last time I gave you a cheese toastie, you laughed and said history was repeating itself... So here I am, making history. But everything is so topsy-turvy with you... It - Oh, it doesn't matter!" he shouts, making me start. "I'm here! Finally giving you that damned cheese toastie!" He spins on the spot, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. "One bloody cheese bloody toastie! One! Just one! And it's really amazing what one cheese toastie can do, you know. There I was, all ready to drop it off and boom! I'm on some sort of _sick_ quest involving a newspaper and a quirk and" -

- "Who are you? Why are you really here?" I ask slowly, still staring at him.

"Never you mind that!"

"Why?"

"Because _I_ have to mind it or we're all in the mincer!" he bellows, throwing his hands up afresh.

"TELL ME!" I yell, making him freeze.

"I'm just... a friend. Or I will be. Yes. That's me. Friend. Best friend. Your bestest friend ever. In the universe in fact. But before all that I have to - Or I won't be your bestest friend ever," the stranger rambles, dabbing his forehead with his mammoth hanky. "All I was, was trying to drop off a cheese toastie and attempting - _attempting_ to make up for some mistakes I've made, some more... recent than others. Waterloo. The Berlin Wall. The Marks and Spencer Boxing Day Sale of 1999. Your leg. I'm sorry about that but once the sock puppet comes out, all hell breaks loose I'm afraid. But _technically_ it shouldn't have happened, because _technically _you shouldn't have been there. At all! I don't know why you were there. Maybe it was because of me. Maybe it's something I still have to do. I genuinely don't know."

"My leg?"

"Yes, your leg!" he says again, looking at me like I'm stupid. But at the sight of my once more gormless face, his own changes. "Oh..." he says, surprised."Silly me. Silly, silly me. I forgot." He hits his forehead with the flat of his hand. "How could I forget? Silly me. Stupid me! I'm blaming the cheese toastie" - he points at the paper bag in my hand - "they're very distracting. Too distracting."

"What's all the hoo-ha about my leg and cheese toasties?" I ask, bewildered to the point of insanity.

He checks his wrist. "That's next week."

"What's next week?"

"Spoilers," he replies, tapping the side of his nose.

"Spoilers?"

"I'm a bit early..." he mutters, starting to pace the room."Or late, depending on which way one looks at it. Maybe I should just stand on my head... Or maybe not. My head isn't as new as it was. Been around a bit. Cricket bats. Pandoricas. Raising armies. Some break dancing in-between. But you and me... It's all a bit in danger. I'm trying to think and there's cheese toasties and you and blithering" -

- "Too damn right!"

"Don't swear!"

"I'm not! But I will if I want to! You're not my dad!"

"I might not be your dad but I'm trying to bring you up and keep you alive all the same!" the stranger retorts. "That means you don't swear!"

"I've brought myself up, thank you very much! And I don't need you to keep me alive! I have lungs! Oxygen!"

"I think you and your lungs have made a bit of a hash of things, don't you?" he fires back. "I mean, look at you! You're like a little savage! Sneaking out of windows in the middle of the night, disguised like some member of a lost Amazon tribe" -

His voice suddenly breaks off. Then he buries his face in his hands. But I'm past pity. "Go on, _Jimbo_!" I sneer. "Go on; tell me what a little - little _savage _I am!"

"Jimbo?" he asks, voice muffled.

"Yes! Jimbo!"

He raises his face from his hands, blinking as the light hits his eyes. He stares at me, uncomprehending. I mouth _Jimbo_, since he's just not getting it. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, shaking his head as though to clear it. "_You've_ been calling me Jimbo for a while now. But you're not that _you_ yet so it's a bit confusing... When you say Jimbo now, it seems wrong. Like it's not _you _saying it. But when _you_ said it then, it made perfect sense. I think we're in the middle just now."

"The middle of what?!"

"The middle of Jimbo, that's what!"

I just gawp at him. _The middle of Jimbo? _

The stranger studies my face, his own becoming very, very sad. Then he sighs again, a deep, weary sigh.

"You're like this because of me," he says quietly. "Wild. Reckless. Untutored. Daring. Rude. Unknowing."

"I'm me because of you?" I ask, bewildered now.

"Yes," he says simply. "And in a lot of ways you're almost exactly like me too. I couldn't have done a better job than if I'd actually tried."

"Almost?"

"Yes, almost. You're... good. Flawed but good. Your conscience will never be as cracked as mine."

I watch him as he wanders over to the bookcase by the wall, more curious than frightened by his words. He picks up my old teddy, studying it as he studied me before suddenly hugging it. It makes me feel odd to see him do this, as though the stranger has a right to hug my teddy. But he doesn't have that right. Only I have the right. He doesn't know him like I do. Nobody knows my teddy like I do.

"That's Beetlejuice," I say before I can stop myself.

"I know," he replies, putting Beetlejuice back down.

"How?"

"I speak teddy."

"Nobody can speak teddy."

"I can. Beetlejuice can."

"What do you know?" I scoff. "Nothing, that's what."

"I know you're hungry," he says, eyes suddenly alight with ancient fire. "I know you're going to eat that" - he points at the greasy paper bag I'm still clutching - "I know I'm going to find the end of this hanky and clean your face with it. I know Beetlejuice wakes up when you fall asleep and dances in the moonlight to music you never hear. I know there's an Hgong under your bed that dreams of Wimbledon. Trust me, I know... _I know_."

"And I know you're a twerp in a bow-tie," I sat smartly.

To my surprise, the stranger throws his head back, laughing a deep warm laugh that sounds like Christmas.

"That's my girl," he crows. "That _is_ my girl!"

"I'm not your girl! I'm my own girl!"

But all he does is laugh at me; laughing so loud and long, I have to throw the paper bag at his head to shut him up. If Gavin got wind of this... The stranger catches the bag with ease, much to my surprise. He looks the type to trip over everything in sight. I scowl at him, folding my arms across my chest for good measure. He studies me again for a second before stashing the paper bag in his pocket. The action draws my attention to the rest of his attire, something that stopped mainly at his bow-tie before.

He's got on a slightly bashed-in looking light brown tweed jacket, old fashioned and nerdy in style, elbow patches and everything. Underneath there's the inevitable bow-tie - red this time - teamed with a sort of burgundy shaded shirt and dark trousers held up by even more old-fashioned looking red braces. His trousers are rolled up at the bottoms, paired with lace-up black boots.

He looks bizarre. As though from another century. But he looks familiarly bizarre, as though I'm used to seeing him look bizarre. But I'm not. I don't know him. I've only seen him a few times before in passing, once on the bus that goes into town, the other times down in the village. It was always the same, one minute he was there, and the next he was gone. But out of all the faces I've forgotten, his is the one I remember.

I should be freaking out. Big time. Screaming and shouting and throwing things at him. Dialling 999. Running from the room and to the care staff. But I'm not. And I don't know why. No. I do know. Because some inexplicable part of my heart welcomes him; welcomes his return or arrival or whatever. It doesn't make any sense. But in a way it does. I trust him. The girl who doesn't trust anyone. Not Jamie or his mother, or even Lena in the past, when she was still Lenaish. I trust _him. _

"You _can_ trust me," the man says softly, making me jump. It's as though he's reading my mind. "In a way, you _must_ trust me. But I want - and need - you to trust me. They're sort of... one and the same. The wish and the necessity of your trust."

"Why?"

"Because... in the beginning... for you... there was no trust. Or it was there, but cracked in places. I'm not sure. Sometimes it seemed like you trusted me... Yet other times... But in the end, I always keep my promises. Even if it takes time. Quite literally, actually..."

The man's face is a battlefield of emotions, reflecting what's taking place in my mind. Half of me is shouting at me to resist, whilst the other half surrendered a long time ago.

"Why should I t-trust you?" I stammer. "I don't know you or anything."

The man looks at me and smiles.

"I think it's time we got reacquainted, don't you?" he says, gesturing to the open window.

* * *

I sit on the edge of the window-ledge, legs dangling. It's a long way down. Jimbo lifts a hand to me in greeting, saying hello. After cleaning my face with his hanky - he _finally _found the end of it - and some baby wipes, he legged it out of the window, leaving me to get changed. Good-bye then. Hello, again. And here I am, legs dangling, staring into the long night...

"Come on!" he hisses, jogging agitatedly on the spot.

"Shut up!" I hiss back. "Do I look like Houdini?"

The man tilts his head back, squinting up at me.

"A little actually. It just might be this angle though..."

I wish I had a shoe to chuck at him. But none are at hand; they're all on my feet. My high heel is lying on the ground beside him. I need to deal with that. But not yet because I need to actually get to it first. And I've done this a thousand times before. Out of the window and into freedom. But with an audience, it's different. There's a look of expectation in Jimbo's eyes, as though I have to prove something. Like I _am_ just like him or something. I'm not sure if I want to prove I'm as mad as a hatter though.

He said the whole wide world and beyond was waiting for us, but I think the moonlight is affecting his brain. Don't know about him, but I have to settle for the village hall rather than the universe. I have lack of funds and fate to thank for that. I'm broke and sort of caught in a bureaucratic net. He's footloose and fancy free; free to stalk the living daylights out of me. I'm still a little freaked out over him turning up in my life like this. I'm even more freaked out over how I'm just accepting it. And now I'm calling him Jimbo, like I've been calling him that all my life. It's crazy, man.

But he seems to have calmed down a bit, like something is going to plan, like he's back in control or something. As soon as he saw me sitting on the window-ledge, the storm left his eyes. It made me feel funny, like I'm hurtling towards something, something bad but it's all going to be alright in the end because he's here.

Something. I keep using that word. That's the only word that makes any sense just now. He's something I can't explain or define. The word goes round and round in my head like a CD on repeat. Something. Something. Something. I wish it would stop... I look down, searching for escape. The world suddenly goes sideways. Reeling back, I grab the window-frame for support. _Okay, Vivien, get a grip. Quite literally or you're going to end up with a broken neck. You're about forty feet up at least. Calm it, Vivien, calm it. _

I try to calm it but all I can hear is something, something, _something_. There's something linking all the broken bits of my life together. Something. But what? I look down at Jimbo's worried face, the shadows dancing across it. Another mystery to unravel... He looks as if he's waiting for something. As I stare at him, I think of all the questions he casts up with his very presence. Who? What? Why? Who is he? What does he want? Why me? What is he waiting for? What is the question haunting his eyes right at this moment? Is he awaiting the answer to this question? Is that what he's waiting for? Or is he waiting for me, now and forever?

I look up the night sky, the darkness soaring into the beyond. The sight of the sky comforts me like a lullaby. It makes sense. It's always there whether I can see it or not. My hands reach for the solid sturdiness of the drain-pipe. Old Trusty, it's never let me down yet either. My fingers close round the faithful metal. It's like the sky, always there, promising freedom. Swinging myself from the window ledge to the narrow body of the drain-pipe is as simple as breathing. I start climbing down like a monkey, nimble and sure. My feet and hands know this dance so well, I could do it blindfolded.

But as I climb down so confident and cocksure, my foot slips. Then the other. I'm hanging like an apple from a tree, trainers kicking in mid-air. It happens so fast, I'm not sure if it's actually happening at all. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe this is all just a dream, Jimbo and everything. It would make more sense than this. I never fall. It's just a dream. It's all just a dream. My eyes drown in the old brickwork before them. I can see every crook and crevice in the cement. Crimson dimmed by age. Solid and real, showing me that I'm not dreaming after all.

I'm going to fall.

Desperately I try to regain my territory. But I fail. Over and over. I can't breathe. The drain-pipe creaks in rejection. I make the mistake of looking down. The ground seems like another planet. I look upwards. Maybe I should just head back. But fear is making me sweat, the palms of my hands damp and moist. Their grip is slackening on old Trusty. I need to reach the bottom. If I climb any higher, it's just more distance to fall.

I try to wedge my left foot in between the pipe and the wall. But my hands fail me, sliding down the drain-pipe, the weight of my body pulling me down. The metal is no longer friendly but cruel. I feel its bitter touch as a screw-fitting rips through the wool of my jumper, scraping the skin underneath. There's a faint sense of wonder in my blood as I go under, wonder at the fact I'm failing at freedom. And then my hands and the hostile metal part company. Old Trusty has betrayed me.

I fall.

My body twists in mid-air. For a brief second I am weightless and then I hear gravity calling my name. It wants me. I need to come home. I shouldn't have been up there, so close to the sky. I belong to the earth. The air rushes past, abandoning me. There's no time to scream or be frightened. All I know is that I've flown too high and that the price for freedom has to be paid. My life is forfeit. The last thing I see before I close my eyes is the memory of Jimbo's face.

And then I finally know the answer to his question.

* * *

My body slams into something hard. It groans, doubling up in pain. I go down with it before going up again. It feels a bit like being on a boat. Maybe the after-life is on the sea, another voyage to embark upon. I hope not. That's all I need, to have tumbled straight from life to death via the Atlantic or something. But I'm surprisingly dry, the air distinctly lacking the tell-tale tang of brine. Maybe I'm land-locked. But where exactly?

Who am I kidding? I know where. And if I was genuinely in doubt, that all too familiar stink of manure would soon set me straight. I'm still at old Wellie. _Oh God. _What happens if I'm trapped here, haunting the Home for the rest of time?

Well, at least I know I won't be lonely. The Duke of Wellington is rumoured to haunt the place. There's a massive portrait of him in the reception hall that he's supposed to come out of now and again. I don't know what sort of life (or death) that's supposed to be. Living in a painting seems a pretty crap thing to do for the rest of eternity. But maybe he likes having a little laugh at the plebeians who piss their pants with fear at the sight of him.

I try to imagine being shacked up in some random's picture and come to the conclusion that it would bore me to death if I wasn't dead already. So does the prospect of scaring the shit out of everyone. It might be a laugh the first few times, but seeing people scream and run away would just get tedious, wouldn't it? I suppose I could chase Gavin along some corridors and make him drop a few dress sizes. He needs to or he's going to end up taking a heart attack. But then again, I might be the one to cause it. So I guess I should just keep out of Gavin's way, just in case.

I wonder at myself for being so calm. I'm dead in the most ironic of ways. Trapped forever in the one place I was trying to escape from. I suppose there's a sort of divine logic to it. Trial and retribution and all that jazz. But I think it's harsh, way too harsh. God can't just kill me for sneaking out of my bedroom window. I guess he just did though.

But I can still justify my actions, even if it's a bit late for all that now. I feel with death comes wisdom. God isn't a sixteen year old girl, all mixed up inside and stuff. So he shouldn't have gone and killed me. How can he understand what it's like to be a teenager? All I wanted to do was have a good time...

Death suddenly seems very lonely and quiet. I don't want to be here, unheard and forgotten. I want to be back in my room, alive and stroppy. I want my life back, Lena and all. But most of all, I want Jimbo. He's suddenly become very important, almost eclipsing my death. I need him. But he's gone, like the rest of the living. I'm separated from him and them. I'm here and they're there, divided by this void that won't let me go.

"Don't worry," a voice says tiredly. "One day you'll get your wish. Just... just be gentle. Please. My neck has never been the same."

"Your neck?" I ask, confused.

"Yes, you sort of threw yourself at me and grabbed it like a rope," the voice replies.

Okay, this is just weird. That voice belongs to Jimbo. Either I've wished him into existence or I've killed him. Maybe I landed on him and broke his neck as well as my own, hence the neck thing. Maybe death has disorientated him a bit and he's all confused and stuff. I know I am.

"Jimbo, can that possibly be you?" I say mysteriously.

"Of course it's me! And drop the mystical act will you? You're a bit too heavy to be a thing of light and air from the Sixth Dimension," Jimbo retorts. "I should know. Had to carry one down to KFC so it could get back home."

I open one eye.

"Am I dead?" I ask, squinting up at his face. It's very pale in the moonlight and strangely, very relieved. The sight of it makes hope spring up in my heart. Maybe I didn't fail after all in finding freedom.

"Erm, no," he admits. "You're alive. Very much so."

I open the other eye, not daring to believe him.

"Are you sure?" I say, frowning slightly. "I fell - or at least I think I did. I've never fallen before. Except... except in my dreams. In my dreams, I fall." A strange tremor shoots through me as I say those words. I never remember those dreams. But the falling... Maybe when I fell in this world, it made me remember falling in the dream world. Or maybe because I'm dead, I can see past the veil now. Or am I already behind the veil? I don't know. Death now seems very bewildering. So much for it bringing wisdom.

"No, you're alive," Jimbo replies, sounding kind of stunned, like the shock's just hitting him now. "I did it. _I actually did it._" There's a pause."I mean, I thought it was me, but I wasn't sure _what_ me. But my memories were still intact so I realized it must have been me except I wasn't sure. It was all a bit timey-wimey and sudden. You hadn't dropped any hints. So that means you don't drop any, alright? No spoilers or anything. I need to figure this one out for myself."

I just gape at him. I'm not dead. I'm alive. I'm alive! Okay, I better shut up now. I'm starting to sound like something out of Frankenstein.

Jimbo carefully sets me on my feet before backing away. I stand, relishing the feel of the ground beneath my trainers. I am actually alive. But it's more than that. It's more than belonging to this world. It's about being whole and unbroken.

I close my eyes and embrace the solidity of my bones and the steady beat of my heart. Everything is in its place, like me. I'm where I belong, under this sky. I belong because I belong to Jimbo. It's because of him I'm here. And this knowledge goes beyond the fact he's just saved my life. This knowledge is there, in my bones, in my roots. It's been there all along.

I had to fall to see the truth.

I take a step towards him, not quite knowing what I'm doing. My eyes meet his. In their depths I see nothing but a painful sort of wistfulness. He saved me. This stranger saved me. But what for? Why this night? _How did he know? _

He holds his hands out before him, almost hesitant. I lift my own, pressing my palms against his in silent communion. Then our fingers knot together, binding one to the other, forever in a handclasp. He looks up at the sky, curious. I do the same, still bound to him. It's beginning to snow. I imagine being up there with only the stars to light the way home. Jimbo turns his face from the sky. As he looks at me, a slow smile spreads across his face, as though he's found a wonderful secret. And I smile back, the snow falling softly around us, the stars still singing their song.


End file.
